I am sitting in the little-used tiny room in our apartment we call "the spongy room," because of its loose old dark-brown carpeting and the way it feels underfoot. There is nothing interesting in the spongy room, just some spillover kitchen gear and cookbooks, bottles of liquor, an old armchair, and a bicycle. It's also cold. Would it help if I noted that my browser is closed?-- the spongy room today is a critical retreat of sensory and information deprivation, desperately needed if I'm ever going to have any hope of writing or thinking something coherent this morning.

It's true that I still have "I can't keep quiet" running relentlessly through my head, as well as a succession of paranoid thoughts about exactly what dastardly plan has been concocted and is being implemented by (some subset of) Vladimir Putin, Steve Bannon, Rex Tillerson, Carter Page, Richard Spencer, Paul Ryan, Mike Pence, Alexander Nix and (maybe) Donald Trump. On the other side of the scales there is an obsessive desire to keep looking for data and photos about a protest and impromptu march in which I personally participated yesterday. Why?--I was there, I know what it was like. Also-- and I know I'm not alone in this-- I'm thinking about some comments I made on Facebook-- whether they were wise, what people thought about them, whether they contributed to the conversation or were just a bunch of self-important BS.

The browser is closed, I won't look at my phone until this is finished, no one else is home, I don't have anyplace else to be. But I still can't turn my brain off.

If conversations I've had with others over the past couple of weeks are any indication, we are all in this boat. So much is happening that consuming news has become (in an immediately overused analogy) "like drinking from a firehose." Then, once you consume it, the pressure and obligation to act in response is immense-- but what should you respond to first, and how? And, while you are beginning to consider action, the firehose blast of new material continues. Meanwhile, there is also life to be lived, a life that increasingly seems like a trivial aside: going to a job, perhaps, keeping up with the kids' schedule, making dinner, doing the laundry, calling your mother and talking about something other than Donald Trump. Reading a book published before 2016, in the Days of Irrelevant Yore. These are all things that have to be fit into the interstices between fits of panic, outrage, and righteous action.

So, for a long time now I've been intending to write and think about how to create an activism schedule, or life balance, or however you want to put it-- some way to gain control back over my time and decision-making-- but ironically I have not been able to find the time to do so. This, despite the fact that I have only a part-time job and my child is 15 and needs very little direct care and feeding. There have always been urgent news to read, urgent calls to make to my senators about cabinet appointments, meetings to attend, protests planned and spontaneous... or, on the flip side of all this, a day here or there of total meltdown in which I check out entirely, eat potato chips, and block out the world.

I was going to write this post yesterday, but a major protest and then impromptu march arose downtown, near the White House, in response to Trump's new travel/immigration bans, and I couldn't bear not to be there, so I went.

The situation is dire. It's great that, all of a sudden, we have an engaged and responsive citizenry, an army of people willing to act at a moment's notice. But, on a collective level, we need to have enough opportunities to catch our breath that we can coordinate well-considered actions, not just reactions. We also need to not burn out after a couple of weeks or months. On an individual level, there's laundry to do, and your teenager wants to tell you about a test score they're really proud of.

And this liquor isn't going to drink itself.

So-- and I am really asking this question, like, seeking answers-- how do you decide what to do, at any given moment? I always have trouble with this issue, being a scheduler and a list-maker-- spontaneity does not come naturally to me. But I'm thinking that maybe, right now, my natural lack of spontaneity could be an asset, something that could keep me from being entirely reactive 100% of the time. I had some luck-- for, like, one week, right after the new year and admittedly before Donald Trump actually took office and started firing off presidential memoranda-- with a schedule that looked like this (on the days I do not work at the restaurant):

1:30 pm--dinnertime Do Life things. Try really hard to stay away from Facebook. Go grocery shopping, do the laundry, errands, bills, cooking. Don't check Facebook. Don't. Even email is shaky now that I receive 80 million action alerts and news digests in it. Just life things. And, oh yeah, exercise.

Eat dinner with my family, do dishes, go for a walk around the block with my husband, possibly watch a TV show that is not black comedy about news (possibly). Now I can check Facebook, but not for too long, because I need to go to sleep at a reasonable hour.

Attend scheduled meetings, protests, volunteering, etc. as needed (probably a couple of evenings a week, plus occasional daytime commitments, usually known in advance).

Sounds like a pretty decent plan, right? But, oh my God, it requires so much self-discipline. I've had three big problems right off the bat. 1) It is hard to stick to ingesting news only once per day, when the constant barrage of outrageous activity from this administration (plus fascinating tidbits that seem out of a spy novel) mean that there is something shocking happening pretty much every second. 2) The pretty natural and universal addiction to checking social media to see if anyone has responded to me has now been invested with a whole extra veneer of urgency and importance, so that it is now possible to pretend to oneself that it matters how many people liked one's comment about Putin or the Women's March. Hint to self: it still doesn't matter that much. 3) (perhaps an extension of #1) In my 7-12:30 time slot, the news-gathering portion of the time has tended to slowly expand and eat up the action portion until it is all gone. This kind of defeats the purpose.

All this has led to a fourth problem: quite uncharacteristically, I am finding myself committing to taking actions that I then don't get around to or forget about. The list of things to do is just getting too long and unwieldy and living in too many different places (emails, calendar, Facebook, written lists, inside my head). I really need to go back through everything and figure out a) what I said I would do that I still need to do, b) what I said I would do that it is too late to do, and c) what else is most important to do next. In a block of time like this, where all other inputs are turned off and I don't stop mid-sentence to read the Daily Kos Elections email or the action steps in My Civic Workout. People who keep recommending new activist tools to me, please stop. You don't understand: I already have a problem. I will love your new activist tool, and subscribe to it, and it will slowly crush me along with all the others.

So. I want to hear your strategies, your problems and solutions, in as much detail as you are willing to give. It is trivial and yet it is absolutely not trivial, because our lives and futures depend now on our being able to get it together and keep it together, to at least a certain degree. How do you decide what to do and when to do it? How do you know which ball to keep your eye on? Do you spend time thinking about where you direct your energies? If not, should you?

It is January 3, 2017. We have now passed almost two months (can it be that?) in grief over the November election, and the time has come for the new music to start playing, and for us to face it. Our new Congress begins today, and the House Republican conference got a jump on things last night when they voted amongst themselves to eliminate the Office of Congressional Ethics as part of the new House rules package. It is expected to pass. (Please note, this is the Office of Congressional Ethics, NOT the Office of Government Ethics-- I have seen this mistake several times this morning in headlines, captions, etc., and it is an easy one to make.) We will have Donald Trump as our president in 17 days. This thing is happening.

We rang in the New Year with quality family time (board games and TV), and a really epic cheese board. I feel like, in the midst of dread and fear and sadness, remembering to have cheese boards is going to be the kind of thing we need to keep us sane. It was kind of expensive, but then again we had a lot of leftovers. If I were to do it again, I would not accidentally pay $15.99 for a wild boar salami. Regular salami would be fine.

I'm still struggling with the question of how to respond to our current political situation: not, "how should we respond?" but ME, personally-- what should I do?

For the past twenty years or so, I have owned a deck of Tarot cards, and-- I know it sounds ridiculous-- but I know how to use them. Sometimes, at the beginning of a new chapter, or in times of bewilderment (and this is both), I will ask for some guidance. Sometimes it helps, sometimes not. Sometimes, I've asked a stupid question, or my whole heart is muddled, and the cards also are muddled, trivial, and forgettable. ("Forgettable" also often means I didn't care for the information I got.) Occasionally-- very occasionally-- a Tarot reading hits like a ton of bricks. This is especially the case when a lot of major arcana are present, signalling: "This is important."

​I almost stopped here to assure you that I don't believe in magic, that my interest in Tarot is purely a matter of accessing one's own subconscious knowledge. But I was finding it hard to write that sentence properly, and eventually it occurred to me that this was because it was a big-ass lie. I don't believe in magic, per se. But I do believe in fate, in a kind of complicated way, and possibly I believe in God, and I don't see why a pack of cards should be any less subject to what I perceive as the laws and vagaries of the moral universe than everything else, so why should they not ever arrange themselves into useful messages, just like the flocks of birds do when they carry to me a sign of hope even while simultaneously going about their own God-given business?

Anyway, this morning I stopped to ask the Tarot about my path in 2017: wtf is it, basically. But a classic Celtic cross Tarot reading actually tells you more about what is happening than what will happen. This particular reading was one of those ton-of-bricks ones. Please only read this next bit if you have an interest in/knowledge of Tarot; otherwise it will bore you to death. You can rejoin us here* (scroll down)

1/2. The two crossed cards in the middle, representing the crux of the present moment, are the 3 and 4 of Swords (the 4 is "reversed," that is, upside-down, which suggests a kind of complication, restriction, inhibition, or even--in rare cases-- overturning of its influence). These are not happy cards; the 3 is often pictured as a heart stuck through with three swords, and indicates heartbreak and betrayal. The 4, typically depicting a sleeper, portrays the kind of retreat and holing-up that follows heartbreak and is necessary for healing. It seemed appropriate that my 4 was reversed-- while my instincts may all cry out for rest and retreat after the pain of this national and personal shock, I am definitely unwilling to indulge this impulse very far. Those two Swords cards, referring to personal pain, are surrounded by a ring of major arcana, far more of them than an "average" pull of ten cards from the deck would produce. This is important. This is bigger than my mourning or my recovery.

3. Tarot readers know that The Fool-- who lies here in a kind of founding, underlying, deep-consciousness position-- is the most important card in the deck. He is the undefined well of all possibility, because he is unburdened by knowledge or expectation, and operates outside the bounds of logic and preconception. He is the zero card, literally. And he also represents the questioner in her primal form, each one of us born unformed, an open and curious blank page. Each time we take the risk of open-mindedness or open-heartedness in life, or embrace the unknown, we are The Fool (and are often called one). My Fool, here, is reversed, because I am not approaching this massive unknown in a spirit of complete openness (though there is a little exhilaration to it), but also of fear (see #5).

5. (I always read 3 and 5 together, then 4 and 6. It just makes more sense.) Above the cross, in the position representing my conscious understanding, we see The Devil (also reversed). Everyone always goes on about how the Devil is not literal in Tarot. Well, I guess not, because most of us don't believe in literal big red demons appearing to take a hand in things. However, if your understanding of the devil is that he represents everything that foments evil within us-- fear, jealousy, addiction, petty dulling of the mind and senses-- did I mention fear?-- then I think it is accurate to say my consciousness is full of him now. He is both the thing that I fear, and a representation of my own fear, which is always a dangerous emotion to court.

3/5 form a pair, a tension, between a fundamental innocence and freedom, and an imposed consciousness of evil. They are both reversed, neither fully-expressed. Conscious thought is not necessarily wrong, but it often is.

4/6 form a different kind of pair, a temporal one, with 4 describing the (recent) past and 6 describing the (near) future. Card 4 is the major arcana Judgement, which is a complex card of multiple meanings, but what I would here read simply, as representing Election Day itself. The "day of reckoning." Again, it is reversed, perhaps to indicate the rather tortured and ambiguous nature of this reckoning, as well as the fact that I think it sucked.

Just look at her. Is there any image that better represents who we might want to be in this moment, with her scales in one hand and her sword in the other? "I have come, not to bring peace, but a sword."

7/8. Another pair. Card 7 can be seen as "who we are" in relation to the reading, Card 8 I typically read as the influence of an important other or others. Card 7, with the last of this reading's major arcana, brings another blast by naming me, outrageously, The Magician. This is card number 1, right after The Fool, which is about raw, elemental power, the channeling of the unformed emptiness of the Fool's world into formed creation. Logos, or a guy with a magic wand, or action!, making something new. Of course, the Magician, like nearly everybody here except for (thank God) Justice, is reversed, because how can any of that be easy or simple, especially for a crabbed old tangled useless person like me? But, how amazing, to imagine that after farting around for probably more than half my damned life, I might be finally chosen to DO something (also see, even more amazingly, the corroboration of Card 10).

Card 8, the 10 of Pentacles, shows a material fullness, comfort and abundance. Since this is the card position representing others' roles, I can expect cheese boards with family and friends to nourish me when times are tough and there's not too much power in my wand. This card, too, is reversed-- nothing is going to be easy, not that easy. But there is sustenance there, and community.

9. This position is always difficult for me to put my finger on. I call it the "hopes and fears card," but maybe more accurately I think of it as the "illusions card," a second place (like card 5) where one's own mental constructs are represented. Not "what is real," but "what are you worried about?," or "what pipe dream are you indulging?" In this case, the 5 of Cups (reversed again!) shows loss and regret, some very serious spilt milk. Is this just fear of the losses inherent in the world going all to hell? Perhaps, or perhaps it is more personal, a fear that any attempts toward justice or action on my part are bound to suck.

10. The final position is the long-term future or "ultimate result," though of course no story ever ends and no future is certain. For a budding activist, though, the two of wands is a good card to have in this position. Wands is the action suit, and the two of wands "taps the same energy as the Magician, but with one important difference. The Magician represents the archetype of power - the impersonal energy of creativity and strength. The Two of Wands stands for that power brought down to Earth and made personal." Also, unlike most of the other cards, the two of wands was not reversed, suggesting that in the long-term I may be able to throw off some of the inhibitions that restrict my movement now. Put together, then, with the Magician and Justice, the reading is very favorable for activism!

Rejoin us here!* In summary, my 2017 Tarot reading suggested that my path forward might be to become a butt-kicking activist. This pleased me.

***

[Jan 8 update]: In the way of these past couple of months, so much has happened since I failed to finish this blog post on January 3. As everyone knows by now, House Republicans failed miserably in their grand plan to undercut ethics oversight in their chamber. For that, we have ourselves, the national press, and (strangely) Donald Trump to thank. New challenges abound, though:

Two different bills have passed the Republican House this week that would serve to hugely undermine the executive branch's ability to implement any regulations-- both the Obama administration's past 6 months of work, and the Trump administration's future work, as well as that of the Democrat (I trust) who will succeed this administration. It is vitally important that they do not pass the Senate.

The Midnight Rule Relief Act would allow all rules finalized by the Obama administration since June (60 legislative days) to be dismissed as a batch without further debate, purely on the basis of their being too last-minute.​The REINS ("Regulations from the Executive In Need of Scrutiny") Act creates a system under which every new federal regulation (that would have more than a $100 million projected impact) would have to be explicitly approved by Congress within 70 days, or be considered rejected by default. Therefore, the executive branch could spend years developing new regulations, and then have them consistently die in Congress by simple lack of action. Imagine if these were, say, the kinds of long-hashed-out rules we got out West over land/wildlife management issues, with years of public comments and much negotiation among stakeholders? And then, after all this work, they go to Congress... and quietly expire. Some find this bill appealing in the short term, because it might make it easier to block Donald Trump's activities. I believe we should remember that there are a lot of hard-working, nonpartisan people laboring in many federal agencies for the benefit of the nation, and their work should not be consistently relegated to the trash bin over political ideology. What a recipe for despair in government!​Both of these pieces of legislation have already been introduced in the Senate. PLEASE call your senators if you oppose these bills (or one of these bills) and let them know your opinion. What many of us are newly discovering, with a kind of wondering delight, is that they REALLY DO TALLY THESE CALLS! It matters. These may seem like arcane rules, but in fact they have the potential to affect hundreds or thousands of issues that are important to us.​Your senator's contact info is here.https://www.senate.gov/senators/contact/

We also have an absurd numbers of cabinet nomination hearings coming up in the Senate, even though many of these nominees have not been thoroughly vetted yet by the Office of Government Ethics (you know, the one that the House Republicans never had on the chopping block). Six major cabinet nominees will have their hearings this Wednesday. [Correction: Jeff Sessions is Tuesday.] They are:

From the Root: Woman reports white man choked her son; Fort Worth, Texas police assault, arrest her instead​Nobody died, but this video needs to be seen widely. Warning: it's hard to watch, between the white police officer stonewalling the mother of the victim, the same man ultimately tasing her and throwing her to the ground and arresting her teenaged daughter as well, and the girl shooting the video (another family member, I believe) communicating her fear and outrage by screaming nonstop abuse. All because the mother tried to report a white neighbor for physically disciplining/assaulting her little boy in her absence.

It is a crazy time. Anyone else having trouble concentrating on basic tasks? For instance, my urogynecologist told me I should do Kegel exercises while I brush my teeth, and my dental hygienist told me I really should be brushing my teeth for 3 minutes at a time because I have plaque, and trying to do both these things at once (Kegel exercises plus dental thoroughness) was already a strain on my limited powers of concentration even before Trump got elected. Now you can just forget about any of these things getting done right, because with my mouth full of toothpaste I am thinking about the electoral college and casual racism and Syria. Wait, I forgot to squeeze!

You'd think that, with all these things on our collective minds, it would make it easier to write, but instead it makes it harder. The sheer volume of thought and emotion and alarming information slamming in from the public sphere, in conjunction with whatever we've got going on privately, is a lot to sift through. I am watching friends tune in and out again. In, because there is the illusion that maybe vigilance will keep us safe. Out, because they are swiftly overwhelmed by what feels sometimes like a cloud of flying shrapnel. It is unclear what we can do to save ourselves when the answer seems to be, always, "everything."

On Monday night, I went to a thing. It was called "Breaking Bread Together," or rather we called it that, having just invented it. Basically, it was an activist potluck. Because it was held in somebody's living room, it was limited to a group of 18 people-- the first 18 to show enthusiasm, not the most important 18 people in my very activist town, although there was a city councilman there in regular-guy mode. We brought soup and bread and vegetables and cookies and cakes. Two different people brought roasted cauliflower with pomegranate seeds. There weren't enough dishes to have both a bowl and a plate, or both a fork and a spoon, so I filled my little soup bowl repeatedly with different things and ate brussels sprouts and roasted cauliflower hungrily with my spoon. We sat on chairs or on the floor, in a wide circle around this guy's living room coffee table, and formally introduced ourselves one at a time, and talked about what was important to us and how we were feeling that night, Dec. 19, the day the electors voted for Donald Trump as President of the United States. We also tried to put together some kind of loose viral model for a series of similar dinners to be held by all of us, and others we would invite and recruit, all over our community.​

Apples for the cake I brought to dinner.

At one point our host, an Ethiopian man who owns a small coffee-roasting business, decided to make coffee for everyone. Before brewing it, he poured the fresh grounds into a dish and passed it around the circle so we could all inhale the delicious smell, having announced that this was a traditional part of the Ethiopian coffee ceremony. It was a nice tiny moment of meditation interrupting the emotion and stress of meeting a bunch of strangers under intense circumstances. Later, he brought a tray full of little cups around to each of us. It was strong, beautiful coffee.

Not all was Edenic. The mostly white faces around the living room individually lamented the relative dearth of people of color and of immigrants in our circle, when (our city councilman asserted) almost half of the residents of our town speak languages other than English at home. There are two towns really: the affluent, liberal, majority-white historic district, and the highly international, and much poorer, neighborhood loosely-arranged around the major thoroughfares. Each is to some degree intimidated by the other. One member of the group, expressing frustration about her prospects for finding dinner guests that were "different from" herself, said more-or-less these words: "Well, I mean, I guess I could go down to the bus stop on the corner, and start inviting people over to my house..." Inwardly I cringed. (Well, knowing me, I probably cringed outwardly as well.) We have a long way to go. Did people really not have any acquaintances that they could begin by inviting?

Not only did many in the group confess to not knowing an ethnically-diverse assortment of people, a number of them said they did not know any Republicans. "I don't know anyone who knows anyone who knows a Trump voter," said one guy. Really? And I thought my world was insular.

Someone suggested a group exercise-- I hate this sort of thing-- in which we all went around the room and said one word that represented how we were feeling, and in this way together we would "make a poem." (Everybody said adjectives, which is not a very good poem.) When it came around to me, I paused. The actual adjective in my mind was "skeptical," which I knew would hurt everybody's feelings. My skepticism was nothing personal, but rather (I realized at that moment) an innate part of my personality. (Put me in pretty much any situation, and "skeptical" will rank up there.) So I lied-- kind of a lie at my own expense. I said "overwhelmed."

Maybe it wasn't a lie. I am overwhelmed.

The next morning, I woke up to find that my 15-year-old, for the first time ever, had set up the coffeemaker before getting into the shower. They had left a note on the counter. It said, "I started coffee on purpose. -A."

While the resulting coffee had some flaws, at least it wasn't an accident.

As I've mentioned, I cannot stop eating. I managed to eat pretty normally on Monday, but I made up for it yesterday when I bought myself a fancy sandwich and chips for lunch, and then a bag of Jelly-Bellies for afters. By nighttime, a desire for wholesomeness had kicked back in, and I cooked a huge pot of vegetable soup: onions, garlic, celery, carrot, parsnips, cabbage, chard, green beans, and peas, with some fresh herbs, vegetable broth, and a little white miso. It's like I am ricocheting back and forth between wanting to nourish everyone in the world, and giving up entirely. I really want the former to win, but every night, after a day spent doing very little by my usual standards, I feel as tired as though I had walked for many miles. Just being alive right now is apparently exhausting. I said this to my husband last night and he tried to explain that it was because of the solstice, the long nights. Maybe, but I don't think so.

By far the most accessed article on this website is the post Eggplant Pros & Cons, written during a period when I was consuming an unpresidented amount of eggplant and began to be worried about toxicity. As an article, it is boring, and I remember very little of the information contained therein. Nevertheless it receives approximately 17 times more traffic than any other post. I thought, if I were to give the Internet what it apparently wants, I would stock my site full of cost-benefit analyses of various foodstuffs, stick some clickbait ads on there, and wait for the magic to happen. Except that this sounds like possibly the most tedious job in the world, and I could probably still make more money waiting tables.

Pros & Cons inspiration did not strike again until the day when I was buying a half-gallon of Silk unsweetened cashew milk for my lactose-intolerant husband, and the bearded stranger in front of me in the Co-op checkout line volunteered that he never eats cashews because of the toxicity. A public service announcement, I guess. Even while I felt scornful about his food-paranoia, his warning nagged at me. I was trying to take care of my husband's health by reducing his obviously inflammatory milk consumption; what if, instead, I was slowly poisoning him with a concentrated brew of expressed cashew toxins?

Two or three months passed during which I continued to buy cashew milk for my husband, did no further research, and witnessed the sudden downfall of our democracy.

​This morning-- a Saturday morning in December, just before the electoral college ratifies the unthinkable-- I sat with my husband, eating a breakfast of bacon & eggs, toast and clementines, and drinking hot chocolate made with cashew milk. Please be advised: hot chocolate is NOT as good with cashew milk, though I have made it with almond milk and that is fine. For the first time, I thought to tell my husband of the bearded man's earnest warning. My husband scoffed. After all, he smokes, doesn't exercise, and has an unhealthy devotion to cheeseburgers. Is it really likely that cashew milk will take him down?

Beyond personal health, however, the exposure to urushiol inherent in cashew harvest and processing means that excessive cashew consumption may have ethical repercussions, as described in The Telegraph:

​​The nuts – 60 per cent of which are processed in India – are exceptionally hard to extract. A cashew has two layers of hard shell between which are caustic substances – cardol and anacardic acid – which can cause vicious burns.

Many of the women who work in the cashew industry have permanent damage to their hands from this corrosive liquid, because factories do not routinely provide gloves. For their pains they earn about 160 rupees for a 10-hour day: £1.70. [...]

Conditions in Vietnam may be even worse than in India. Cashews are sometimes shelled by drug addicts in forced labour camps, who are beaten and subjected to electric shocks. Time magazine has described this trade as “blood cashews”.

So there's that. I can't determine where Silk's cashews are sourced (notably absent from their FAQs, which provide this information re: soybeans and almonds). I would normally just give up, but in this new age of activism it occurred to me that I could ask them, so I wrote to inquire. Will let you know if they answer. [UPDATE: Silk says that their cashews come from "Africa, Brazil and Vietnam."]

Now that we have concluded that cashews are safe, if possibly unethical, to eat, I have a few words about another current American dietary trend, our toxic friend Donald J. Trump.

An asshat, yes, you say, but a dietary trend? What do you mean?

Just what I say. After the election, we spoke of five stages of grief. But, as far as I can currently tell, there have been only two stages of eating. 1) 48 hours or so (your experience may vary) of total loss of appetite, during which we had to remind one another to drink water and nobody cared if they had a splitting headache or were subsisting on a couple of handfuls of Ritz crackers. 2) A sustained, not-yet-over period of frantic stress-eating, legitimized widely by Anne Lamott confessing the same on Facebook, but shared by many, characterized by a massive intake of carbs (and sometimes alcohol) and a sudden absence of regard for one's own health or even vanity.

At some point it occurred to me to drink some bourbon, and it was like the best thing I had ever tasted.

And it's not just quantity, it's quality too. I don't feel like cooking. While broccoli still tastes great when it magically appears on my plate, I have stopped bothering to serve a salad with my pasta. Too much trouble, and who cares, really? We've taken to eating frozen burritos, frozen vegetables, accidentally-vegan macaroni-and-"cheese" out of a box. I buy candy, and chips, and donuts. This cannot be good for me, or us, or the world. Also, I don't want to become a drunk.

This is true toxicity, this hopelessness and insecurity and downright fear and dread that we feel. The unhealth of Trump's own food choices has somehow become contagious, even while all his other choices are ones we repudiate. At this rate, on January 21, the date of the Women's March, a sea of bloated, sad faces will fill the streets of Washington D.C., and we will march uncomfortably in our tight pants.

I have no solution to this. There are so few ways to make myself feel better these days, so few routes to pleasure-- which is different from happiness, now inaccessible. Pizza is accessible.

Tonight my husband and I will go to the bad diner. This is the one we choose when we're feeling low-energy, like after a long, horrible weekend day at work, or when we are sick or our cat has died. The food is unreliable and the coffee weak, but there is absolutely no pressure there. You can eat with your coat on if you're feeling chilled, or hunch over the table with eyes closed; the waitresses know us. My husband can get a cheeseburger.

As I was preparing this morning to go to my lily-white safe space, that 10 am Friday yoga class that I missed last week due to work, and hence am attending for the first time since the election of Donald Trump as President of the United States, I thought to myself: "I don't know if I can go on doing this."

It's not a safe space because of its whiteness, per se. It's a safe space because this is the culture of yoga teachers, to surround us with unconditional love and supportiveness, to encourage self-love. It's a very feminine space. Today, there were three men present, and they all stuck together in a rear corner.

All three men were white. And all the women there were white. The teacher was white.

So, in my lily-white safe space, two things make me uncomfortable. One is the monolithic whiteness, only rarely interrupted. And the other is the idea of self-love, of self-care. Who am I, privileged white bitch with an easy life, to give this to myself? To allow someone else to caress me with soothing words? What even is this feel-good crap?

And yet the breathing, the movements, the resting, even the chanting--about which I still feel awkward-- they do calm me. It is a conundrum.

Do I deserve more calm? After the election of a racist, misogynistic, narcissistic, xenophobic, tax-dodging billionaire and climate-change-denier, is more calm something to be desired? If this mode of increasing calm is not available to everyone, is it something of which I should avail myself?

All fair questions. As a white woman at this moment in time, I feel squeezed. I feel squeezed on one side by white male and other Trump supporters who said, at best, No, white women, it is not your time, and-- at worst-- it will never be your time, you stupid fucking cunts. I feel squeezed on another side by women of color who point out, over and over, that 53% of white women voted for Trump, that we are, as a demographic, traitorous or duplicitous-- and make it clear that this is what they always expected of us. They seem disappointed but not surprised. I feel squeezed by sadness that an eminently qualified woman lost the election, that the small progress we were making on climate change will be reversed, that we will lose progress on LGBT rights, women's rights, health care, criminal justice reform. I feel squeezed by the conviction that my sadness is selfish, an undeserved luxury, the personal stake I felt in Hillary Clinton's election insignificant compared to the stakes of others.

Sometimes it feels as though, squeezed from all these directions, there is nowhere left to inhabit. Even action, even activism, feels potentially self-serving, is regarded with suspicion from within and without. Maybe rightly so.

Under the circumstances, what do we do? Help others, is one answer. I've been trying to do more of that. Listen, obviously. Take care of ourselves? Do we do that? Should we do that? Is yoga OK? Cups of tea? Naps? How about shouting, is that OK?

One thing I've learned over the years of being a white woman: we are so self-hating. Nobody can hate us more than we hate ourselves. Many of us, if we could shrink down to the size of a pin, if we could disappear altogether, we would do that.

But that is a cop-out. When I'm mad at my husband for doing or saying something sexist, and he retreats into self-hatred, it makes me madder. By yelling at himself, he is preventing me from yelling at him. Then I have to turn around and reassure him. He means well. It is infuriating.

So maybe this answers my question. White women should engage in self-care, whether or not they think they deserve it, if only so that others-- others who may be even wearier, with even fewer fucks to give at this point-- are not forced to do the caring for them. Whatever, yoga on your own time. Go sleep on your couch, just don't tell me about it (and yes, I'm aware of the inherent irony of this piece, squeezing away). Eat avocadoes, while also bearing in mind the funniest protest sign ever. Kvetch with friends. And stop defensively flipping out every time someone points out that you are, like, the living stereotype of a liberal white woman. That is what you are, own it. And take care.

President-elect Donald Trump, who did not realize he was going to have to staff the White House and come up with names for so many appointed positions, is busy finding the most ill-qualified and white-supremacist candidates available to supervise the executive branch of our government.

My dry cleaner has to reassure me. "We will be okay," he says. "We will organize." I want to ask him: when? where? Is there a meeting in the back among the racks of shirts? He is there six days a week, twelve hours a day. Lacking clear organization, I volunteer for everything at random. I go to the PTA meeting. I look up the date of my next city council meeting. I put my name on lists that other people are organizing. I write emails to the principal, other parents, the school superintendent. I sign myself and my kid up for a seminar training women to run for public office. I agree to sell tickets for my kid's school play. I volunteer to make dinner for 45 kids, to be served during dress rehearsal. I drive other teenagers home, give $2 (which is all the cash I have in my wallet) to the guy standing on the median, decide to buy a subscription to the New York Times.

I argue with white Facebook friends about racism. I argue with Bernie Sanders supporters about Hillary Clinton. I argue with a cook in my restaurant about whether Islam is an inherently terrorist religion.

Making pasta salad, as well as a green salad, for 45 people turns out to be a lot of work. It takes about 3 hours, given that I have to boil water for pasta four separate times, blanch broccoli in a giant pot, and do lots of chopping, slicing, and grating. Plus washing dishes. In the end, there were four foil trays of pasta and two big bowls of tossed salad. On the plus side, I managed to make all this food for about $75 in groceries, a good value compared to the catered or pizza dinners that other parents have brought. That is less than $2 per person, and the food is healthy, with lots of vegetables, a little cheese, pasta and a balsamic-and-olive-oil dressing (plus lemon-and-olive-oil for the green salad). My kid said that some students complained it was too healthy. Fortunately for them, due to our current spirit of volunteerism, another parent brought sandwiches as well.

It's over. Accept it. Donald Trump won. Time to move on and heal our divisions. Time to roll up our sleeves and get to work. Time to stop talking about politics, which I find boring and divisive anyway. It's been 36 hours, I mean, come on. Don't be so melodramatic.

NO I WILL NOT CALM DOWN.

Here are some completely real things that are actual or potential results of this election that will not go away in 36 hours or a week or month or year. Some of them are forever. Forever.

Once again, we do not have a woman president, and so much of this campaign was rooted in deep sexism, both blatant and subtle, that we women are now painfully aware of just how rigged the system is against us. Still. Women of my generation (I'm 45) were brought up by our newly feminist mothers to think we could do anything, be anything. Not only is that manifestly untrue, but even OUR daughters, 30 years later, now have to doubt it.

My LGBT+ loved ones may lose certain basic rights, such as their right to marry or to use the bathroom that corresponds with their gender.

Everyone I know or work with who is an undocumented immigrant now has to live with an increased level of fear, and rightfully so.

Everyone I know who is a person of color, immigrant, and/or Muslim (screw it, even Jews! This is so crazy) now has to feel that approximately half the country either hates and fears them, or at the very least cares so little about their rights and well-being that they are willing to casually endanger those things.

Women may lose access to abortion.

A temperamentally aggressive and impulsive man will be in charge of our extremely sensitive foreign policy. In addition to being aggressive and impulsive, and having a pathological need to "win" everything, he appears to know no more about the subject matter than I do, possibly less. And his inability to pay attention to information for more than 3 seconds or listen to the advice of others means that informed counsel will be of limited use. We could end up in pointless wars over personal affronts, discontinue important alliances, and/or initiate the use of nuclear weapons.

We will almost certainly bow out of the Paris climate accords. We will move backwards on energy and climate policy when it is critical that we move forwards very, very fast, if we are to avoid total disaster. We will see significantly worse climate change, more severe weather events, lose land to stupid development, lose species at an even faster rate, fail to protect what is fast slipping away. These effects are forever. They can't be reversed four years later. They have permanent planetary impact.

The painful, slow, did I mention painful progress that we have been making the past few years in highlighting issues of race, police brutality, and criminal justice reform will likely be erased.

Unpredictable worldwide economic effects may change our lives dramatically. This is a slow-burner one, but still scary in a personal sense. Last night I pondered whether we should order pizza (because I did not have the heart to cook), or whether we really ought to start carefully hoarding our resources immediately. (We got the pizza. I'm not insane.)

I'm sure there are so, so many other things that I would think of over the next two minutes or seven hours or whatever-- I could go on writing this just about forever. But I think this is enough to convey the point: YES, I AM FREAKING OUT. IT IS COMPLETELY RATIONAL TO BE FREAKING OUT. If you are a Trump voter, or a third-party voter, or a disaffected voter, or a low-information voter, or even a Democratic voter who sees this as just another ordinary election that we lost, please don't come along and tell us to settle down or get to work immediately on something positive. We'll do those positive things once the dust settles and we can identify what the fuck they are. But for now, there is a real need to grieve, and to do it in an open way such that we can connect with others who are also grieving and freaking out. Please don't tell us to shut up. Thank you.​

There is wind, drying brown leaves blowing, that kind of bright yellow sunshine that only comes on the chilly perfect days of autumn. I could and should be outside for hours every day. Instead we are all on Facebook and Huffington Post and 538.com. Last days. For the moment, reality-based democracy seems to have it in the bag, but we are looking for constant confirmation. And what about the Senate? And the House? I found myself calmed somewhat yesterday-- oddly-- by politely conversing a while with someone who holds diametrically-opposed opinions to mine. We were civil. The world did not come to an end. Let's not let this Trump campaign be the end of civility.

Emotionally, too, I've been blown by gusty winds this week: full of grievances and questioning the motives of everyone. Food, as always, is my touchstone. This week in recipes:

Mridula Baljekar:

Spicy Grilled Chicken, served with Saffron Rice and salad. As always, I am having trouble finding links to Baljekar's dishes online. "Spicy Grilled Chicken" is a terribly generic name and there are a million kinds of saffron rice and Baljekar seems to have published several different versions of all her dishes in various cookbooks which all bear similar names. The one I own (Best-Ever Curry Cookbook) seems to be one of the less common ones. So, I shall describe these dishes to you. The Spicy Grilled Chicken consisted of chicken thighs marinated in lemon, ginger, garlic, chilis, sugar and honey, treated with cilantro and more chilis, and then broiled, or in my case baked at a high temperature, because my broiler is unusable. It was perfectly fine-- flavorful enough chicken pieces, without sauce, but that was OK because a) the chicken was thighs and wouldn't dry out, and b) the saffron rice had its own flavor. The saffron rice, which was simple basmati rice cooked with cardamom, cloves, and saffron, and a little milk, was also fine. I felt that it had more saffron than it needed (1/2 tsp.), and would have been fine with less, which is an important point given that saffron is sometimes said to be more expensive than gold (my research suggests that this is not currently true. But still). I am a much bigger fan of Baljekar's cookbook now than I was a month ago, but-- while both of these dishes were solid enough-- neither one was anything special.

​Madhur Jaffrey:

Peas with Ginger and Sesame Oil, served with bulgogi-and-sweet-potato omelets and toast. Because it is October, and because it is difficult to find shelled fresh peas in any season, I used frozen peas for this recipe and the next. These peas were extremely simple: basically stir-fried with ginger, sugar, sesame oil, and toasted sesame seeds. I felt that the result, given recipe instructions, was too heavy: too much salt, too much ginger, too much sesame. You don't normally hear me complain about "too much ginger." An easy but not particularly well-balanced recipe.

Three omelets in the making.

Toasted sesame seeds.

The Green Peas with Coconut and Cilantro were better. I used fresh basil leaves instead of curry leaves, as suggested, and-- not as suggested-- substituted coconut butter for the grated fresh coconut, because the fresh coconut I'd bought turned out to be rotten inside. Which I discovered when taking a drink of the coconut water I drained into a glass before breaking the coconut open. Anyway, while the coconut butter made these peas very rich, they tasted delicious. Mustard seeds, cumin, chilis, turmeric, and dried coriander augmented the fresh cilantro and basil and the strong coconut flavor. We served this dish with grilled cheese sandwiches and some roasted potatoes, sweet potatoes, and turnips.

Bon Appetit:

​Hot Sausage and Crispy Chard Pizza, served alone on a plate with a side dish of heavy skepticism. WTF, Bon Appetit. So, sausage-and-chard-pizza sounds really good, right? And this recipe from Bon Appetit simply directs you in topping a lump of pizza dough that you have purchased from the refrigerator case in the supermarket. Easy-peasy. Okay, now you go home and try to fit all this on a single pizza: 3/4 lb. sausage, an entire bunch of barely-braised Swiss Chard, 1/3 c. parmesan, 1 c. Fontina, 1 c. ricotta. It may not sound like a big deal-- it didn't to me, either, before I actually started pre-cooking the sausage and chard. But it is actually ridiculous. Before cooking, the pizza-with-toppings was probably about 3-4 inches high, almost all sausage, chard and ricotta. After cooking-- when the chard had settled down-- it was more like 2-3 inches. It was a big pile of food loosely arranged on a crust. Fortunately, it was not actually inedible; it was just not pizza. And the weight of toppings was so great that the crust really didn't rise at all. My revised recipe: try 1/4 c. sausage instead of 3/4 c., use a smaller "bunch" of chard (or a partial bunch) and cook it down significantly (and squeeze out liquid) before putting it on the pizza, and use way less ricotta. I spent a lot of time laughing at this pizza. I wanted to see what others thought about it on the Bon Appetit website, but their comment section seems to be missing.

Topping, part 1: cooked sausage and chard stems.

Topping, part 2: barely wilted chard leaves.

Topping, part 3: now we have added the cheeses.

After baking.

The Internet:

Frozen Coconut Limeade, from Smitten Kitchen, consumed after dinner while watching the latest episode of this terrible season of Survivor. Normally I love almost everything Deb Perelman does (and normally I love Survivor), but this beverage was about as lackluster as the show we were watching. It was like we were just pretending to be festive on both fronts. I added extra lime and sugar to my drink, but it still seemed to me bland and excessively icy. To be fair, husband and kid said it was good, but maybe that's because I don't normally fix them tropical iced beverages to drink while they watch TV.

The week in cooking featured a series of uninspiring vegetable dishes, one utilitarian but oh-so-necessary french chocolate cake, and a kick-ass delicious Indian meal from Mridula Baljekar, who is swiftly redeeming herself.

​Mridula Baljekar:

​Chicken in Green Masala Sauce, with Nut Pulao (also from the same cookbook, but no link available). Gradually I am becoming sold on Mridula Baljekar. These were both amazing recipes, and I'd be happy to make them again and again. (In fact, I have already made a pared-down version of the Nut Pulao again this week.) The sauce for the chicken, made from blended yogurt, ricotta, spring onions, coriander, mint, green chilis, garlic, ginger, and (surprisingly) green apple, was both easy and incredibly flavorful. Then the chicken was basically just cooked in the sauce, no weird parboiling necessary. The rice for the pulao was fried with onion, carrot, and garlic, and then cooked with vegetable broth and spices. Walnuts and cashews were added at the end. It was sweet and fragrant and delicious, although I felt it stood on its own so well that it did not need to be swamped in green masala sauce. In the future I'd make the chicken with plain white rice, and the pulao with something simpler. I'd make both for company, happily.

Stages of pulao.

Green sauce, happening.

Now with cilantro and raisins!

Blended.

Madhur Jaffrey:

Fried Okra with Onions, which we ate with hummus-and-za'atar toasts, cooked carrots, and apple slices. The okra (and onions) were greasy and not recommended. So far I have not had a lot of luck with the idea that shallow-frying (or deep-frying) okra will make it crispy. That said, frying with lots of hot oil has never been my forte.

Batter-Fried Okra, which we ate with baked sweet potatoes from the farm, nut pulao #2, and fresh pineapple. This was the first okra recipe that my husband just plain refused to eat. He had been a good sport up until now. I did not find it inedible (at least the batter bits got crunchy, if the okra didn't), but also did not see the point of it. At all. I was also confused by Jaffrey referring to these as "fritters," when they seemed to be just bits of deep-fried okra. I will say, I had to use frozen okra for both of these recipes, and so was not able to slice it thinly lengthwise the way this recipe called for. I don't know if that would have made a major difference in the result.

Okra, in batter.

Sweet potatoes.

​The Internet:​

Valerie's French Chocolate Cake, from Smitten Kitchen. I made this on Wednesday night, so that we could eat it while we watched the third presidential debate. The idea is to ward off evil influences per Lupin's wise advice. To this end, while I only made a single layer of this rather simple cake-- full of butter and chocolate but with a mere 1/3 c. flour-- I also made a great deal of chocolate whipped cream (who knew you could make chocolate whipped cream? A revelation) and dolloped it heavily on top of our plain bittersweet cake slices. The dementors certainly did their best, but we and Hillary Clinton prevailed. How was the cake? Fine. Nothing special. My kid, who had bizarrely decided to drink a double espresso at 5:30 that evening, was not able to fall asleep after the debate until 1 am, and so spent the next day shoveling slices of chocolate cake into their mouth to try and keep their energy up. So it served its medicinal purpose twice.​Bon Appetit:

Cauliflower with Pumpkin Seeds, Brown Butter, and Lime, served with marinated grilled tofu, plain quinoa, and cooked turnips. I like roasted cauliflower, as I like most roasted vegetables. Did I find roasted cauliflower to be markedly superior when dressed with pumpkin seeds, red pepper flakes, cilantro, and lime juice? Not really. Enough said. The turnips were better and I just cooked them with salt, pepper, and butter.